


They Never Talked About It

by IShouldBe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 06:17:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20286784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IShouldBe/pseuds/IShouldBe
Summary: They never talked about it.It simply...wasSSHG HEA...Always :)





	They Never Talked About It

* * *

_They never talked about it._

_It simply…was._

* * *

Hermione stood at his bedroom door, the chill of the November night finding the chinks in her thick, woollen dressing gown and sleep-socks. She lifted her hand, knuckles ready to rap on the battered wood. A sliver of moonlight traced over her skin from the narrow window cut into old stone.

Silvered. Like the myriad scars that cursed her body...

For a moment, she closed her eyes and breathed, hating the neediness that seemed to rise up and devour her in the early hours. This week had been worse than ever, the drive to stand outside his bedroom, and wait. Wait for him to...agree. She could never simply slip in, even though his quite vicious wards were no more than a prick against her trembling knuckles.

"Hermione..."

Her name said in his voice was always a balm to the anxious twist of nerves under her skin. Easing the riot of her belly. And he knew. He _knew_ when she shivered and twitched on the other side of his door.

She lifted the latch, pushed open the door, and in the warmth of his room —always so toasty— she let her dressing gown fall to the floor and slipped into Severus Snape's wide bed.

* * *

_It started in the summer._

* * *

Hermione curled up in the wingback chair set before the fire in the library of Grimmauld Place. The last of the glowing embers warmed through the pile of grey ash and she stared at the hearth, not wanting to think. Not wanting to feel...anything.

But still the thoughts and feelings rampaged like a wild hippogryph through her brain.

It was supposed to be tonight. She looked to the long window and the square panes already gleaming under the dawn of a summer morning. _Last_ night, then. Their _special_ night. Her…

She sucked in a raw breath and scrubbed at her sore eyes.

The war was over, had been for almost four months, and the magical world was slipping into the wild relief of their being safe at last. To get on with life. Working. Living. Loving.

Hermione huffed a breath and rewrapped her dressing gown. Yes, that one.

She hadn't been ready...before. What with the funerals, sitting her NEWTs, retrieving her parents and stoving in the thickened skulls of the Wizengamot in regards to the innocence of one Severus Tobias Snape. So many things to do. And well, she was nervous. Nervous of it being her first time. Of having practically no experience. Being Hermione Granger did tend to put boys off. The ones _she_ might be interested in, anyway. There were also her scars.

Six years of Hogwarts on the verge of war and a year on the run had peppered her whole body with scars of every shape, size and depth. Even magic, either spell or potion, could only work so far. And there'd been the troll. The Whomping Willow. Death Eater Curses. Crashing through far too many bloody buildings…

Hermione caught her fingers in her messy curls and let her head fall back against the soft padding of the chair. She stared at the mantle, the first touches of morning light catching on the magical frames Harry had set there.

The three of them —the infamous Golden Trio— laughing and happy.

It wasn't supposed to _matter_. Her scars. That there were so many. Ron… He had scars, too. Not as severe as hers, but the fight in their fifth year at the Ministry and whatever the hell those brain creatures were, had marked _his_ skin. But no… One look at her body, silvered and puckered in places he was expecting smooth perfection, and he...deflated. Backed away. Said it was a mistake and that they should just be...friends.

And ran from her room.

That had been six hours ago.

A sour smile pulled at her mouth. As if _she_ was complaining about _his_ gingeryness and that absolute _rash_ of freckles.

Hermione closed her eyes and willed herself not to cry anymore over the utter git. He was a boy. Younger than her by half a year. That was almost —what?— a five year difference in maturity between them? This was Ron. Make it seven. Did she want to wait around for him to grow up? To realise that she was more than a body to fuck.

A stone dropped in her belly.

Or...was that all she had been? Something he'd imagined, fantasised about and then the reality of her skinny and scarred body had thrown him?

She pressed her hands to her face and sucked in a whining breath, the burn of his complete rejection of her, a woman she thought he loved, standing naked and so very nervous before him. To see him wilt. And worse, the edge of…of _horror_ in his eyes.

Another half-stifled sob broke from her.

Who would want her for herself when the man —the _boy_— who'd held her heart for so many years couldn't look at her without disgust?

"Miss Granger."

Hermione squeaked and wiped at her face. She pulled her hair forward, hoping to mask the puffiness and risked a look to the door. Severus Snape stood framed in the open doorway in a long, black dressing gown that swept down to the floor. His hair was tied back, his stark face limned with warm morning light. The puckered and still reddened mass of his scars at his neck was quite, quite plain.

She swallowed, the panic of being caught out of bed by him something hard to fight even though she was no longer in school, and he no longer her professor. "Professor." She hissed against the word. "Sir… _Master Snape_. I'm sorry, can I help you?"

He put out his hand, long fingers pale and silvered by his long working with potions. "Come with me, if you please?"

Hermione blinked. "Come…?"

Severus' lips thinned. "Ronald Weasley is a vacuous boy. An idiot." He looked to his hand and back to her. "I can...help you."

Heat flooded her face and bloomed in her chest. She was certain she was gaping. Was he offering…?

A twist of a smile lifted the corner of his mouth and his black eyes shone. "No, Miss Granger, I do not intend to _despoil_ you. I can, however, offer...acceptance. I am not," he winced and his shoulders dropped, "not an _attractive_ man. No looks to save me, and with this," he flicked his fingers to his neck, "my appeal has dropped even further-"

"No, that's far from-"

"It _is_ the truth, Miss Granger. I understand…rejection." His hand was pointed to her again. "But, if you wish it, I offer you myself."

Hermione frowned. "Why? And what exactly?"

Severus let his hand fall and his shoulders straightened. "You have fought for me. I'm free largely in part due to your...hardheadedness." He twitched a smile and she couldn't help put echo it. "I am no longer your professor, nor you my pupil. I believe we could be friends. And a friend helps, do they not?"

Her heart was in her throat, the tight and almost wonderful pain of it catching her breath. She swallowed. "I would be honoured to be your friend...Severus." She pressed her lips together after rushing his name. And blinked, staring at him, waiting for the explosion. None came.

"Very well. _Hermione_."

Oh, and didn't his still quite lovely voice simply caress her name?

"And as to the what, I offer my bed. To hold you. Just...as you are."

Hermione pressed her fingers to her lips and her eyes burned. Oh...oh. That was… How many had rejected him for the way he looked...and the bravery to offer himself again. To face the rejection of one he wanted to know as a friend. His courage overwhelmed her. And how could she refuse him? She jerked a nod and unfolded herself in a graceless rush from her chair. Her fingers slipped into his. Warm. Strong. The calluses from potions and knife-work roughening his hand. He gifted her with another of his wry smiles.

"I will share nothing of what I see, nor what we do with anyone else, Hermione."

"Thank you. But I don't care."

And she didn't in that moment. So what if anyone thought that she was...was _sleeping_ with Severus Snape. Especially one Ronald Bilius Weasley.

No, she crushed that thought. It was childish and not fair to their nascent friendship.

Severus squeezed her fingers. "I have you now, Miss Granger."

And her snort of laughter echoed along the landing.

* * *

_His room was cold…_

* * *

Severus frowned at her as she twitched and a moment later, he flicked a spell at the hearth, igniting the fire beside his bed. Another chased through the air, warming it.

Hermione smiled. Her mother had always said she was cold blooded, her little lizard girl who needed to bask in the heat. Yes, her mother could be quite…strange. "Thank you." She pressed her lips together and knotted her fingers. Her gaze flicked about the bedroom, dreary and grey much like any other room in the Black house. "How do we…?"

"We can sleep as we are. Clothed."

"That won't be comfortable." And before she could think it over, or stop herself, the Gryffindor in her charged forward and she threw off her dressing gown. Stood before him in only her sleep-socks and least-flattering knickers. Did she want proof that he would accept her? The need to not see disgust on the face of another man? Her thoughts were manic. Who knew? Well, now she would.

"Her—" He drew in a breath and shook his head. A smile cut across his mouth. "Gryffindor to the core, aren't you witch? Fine." His own dressing gown left him with slightly more elegance and he draped it over a chair. His body was long and pale, wiry and silvered with scars. He wore tight, black shorts that revealed…nothing.

She snapped her gaze up at his chuckle. "Into bed with you, then."

"That's…it?"

"What? I have no need to compare and contrast my skin with yours. And contrary to all rumours, I quite like to sleep." He waved his hand to the broad, curtained bed. "It also has a warming spell."

"I don't like the cold."

"So I can see."

Her gaze shot to him and he smirked. "Into bed, witch."

Her face hot, and resisting the need to cover her nipples, Hermione scrambled on the high mattress. With a sigh, Severus followed and with little ceremony, pulled her to him, wrapping himself around her. He was so deliciously warm, the strange brush of chest and leg hair quite…lovely.

"Go to sleep."

Yawning and snuggling back, as if being curled up to Severus Snape was perfectly ordinary, Hermione did just that.

With the sun high in the sky, she woke, still tangled in his arms and legs after one of the best night's sleeps she'd had in years. It was insane that he had given her such peace. But…

"Severus? I'd like to do this again."

He didn't reply. The tightening of his arms was enough of an answer.

* * *

_Without knowing quite how or why, she slipped happily into being Severus Snape's apprentice._

_She simply...was._

* * *

A cold gust of November air whipped through the apothecary as the door creaked open and the brass bell jangled above it. Hermione looked up from stocking hag creme on the lower shelves. Even in dark-tinted bottles the creme was sensitive to light. And hags became seriously miffed when their skin products went off. Skin that foul didn't happen simply by foul accident and bad genes, you know….

She couldn't see over the broad counter, but Severus was already stepping up, his mouth in a thin line, his eyes narrowed.

"Miss Patel, Miss Brown, what do you require?"

Hermione warred with herself. To stand and smile and greet her former roommates and have the awkward shuffle of not really being friends tighten the air? Or let Severus deal with them. And have the two women off his premises in three heartbeats.

She picked out another bottle of creme from the crate and placed it on the shelf. Ah, the label was slightly off. She had to spend time straightening it. Hags were the worst fussers, after all. Decision made.

"We need, well that is, _I _need, pregnancy potions. I am still within the first month."

Lavender's voice carried. She'd put some force behind it. Ah, for _her_ benefit. That declamation would carry to the upstairs flat. To the rafters of the attic, very probably. Why would she care? Yes, it was very nice for Lavender to be pregnant, if that was what she wanted. And it appeared that she did. So...good for her?

"Should I open the door? Those more than three shops away may have missed your news, Miss Brown."

Hermione bit her lip and pressed her hand to her nose and mouth to stop the snort.

"And Ron wanted to me to leave this for Hermione." Lavender carried on, as if Severus hadn't said a word.

Something papery slipped against the polished counter.

"Her invitation. And yours, I suppose. To our wedding." Treacle practically dripped from the woman's voice then. "You know, Par, Won-Won said that he didn't want me to wear a witch-veil for the ceremony. My scars, he said, are a badge of honour from the war. Everyone would see me as the beautiful witch I am, no matter what that foul beast did to my face. Isn't he sweet?"

A bottle slammed onto the counter. "Eight galleons." Severus bit out the price.

"Eight?" Lavender practically shrieked. "Slug and Jiggers have it at two."

"Then they will welcome your custom." The door bell jangled and another whip of air chased through the shop. "Go. You have all that you came in for, I believe?"

There was a huff and a clack of shoes over the wooden floor. The door slammed, with the clang of the bell echoing after it.

"Hermione?"

Severus pulled her to her feet and wiped at her wet face. She was crying? Of course she was. That..._weasel_, Ron, had fled to Lavender...and told her enough about them, about the aborted time in her bedroom for his fiancee to come and lash her victory. Cow. And Ron, regardless of whether he knew of her plan, was still an utter shit.

Hermione sank into Severus' arms, and the power of his hold, his simple acceptance offered all those months before, bled into her. She belonged with him. Just him. Since that night in Grimmauld Place, it had always been...him.

* * *

_With that realisation, she didn't shed another tear._

* * *

In the perfect darkness of his bed, Hermione snuggled into the warmth of his body. Bare skin against her own. He never pushed, never overstepped, simply held her, either her with her face smushed into his neck and the delicious scent of his skin easing her to sleep. Or he was the big spoon, curled around her, her pale and protecting dragon. It was bliss...and very necessary in the week since Lavender had exploded her news all over the apothecary. And _The Prophet_. And _Witch Weekly_.

She threaded her fingers through his, his large hand pressed to her belly. A week. She'd worried at her realisation for a week and couldn't hold it back any longer.

"Severus…?"

"Sleeping, Hermione." His dark voice was low and edged with tiredness. "Saturday morning is always rush hour for dunderheads."

"I...just want you to know, how much I...appreciate you." Her fingers squeezed his and she breathed, her chest tight and she closed her eyes as Severus stiffened.

"But?"

"There's no but."

"Hermione…"

He drew back from her and a hot well of panic chased through her flesh. "It's more of a 'well, and'." She turned over and not for the first time, wished that the perfect darkness was not quite so perfect. Her face was hot. She breathed in and out. "Ron's...news. It made me face up to… Can we have a little light, Severus? It feels as if I'm talking to a wall."

A whispered spell and the blackness faded to a soft grey, just enough to see him by. Sleep tousled, pink cheeked, though his eyes were wary.

Hermione screwed up her courage. "I don't want to leave. I never want to leave. My apprenticeship. The shop." She swallowed and her eyes dipped to his collarbone. She itched to trace her fingers over the notch. His pale skin looked so smooth… "_You_. I never want to leave you. And I'm, I'm afraid that you'll be fed up to the back teeth with having to deal with such a bloody needy witch. And I couldn't bear that. Not to have...this. Even if, even if, all that I _can_ have is this."

She pressed her fingers to her lips. "Please...please say something. Anything."

"I am simply waiting for you to draw breath."

Hermione snorted a panicked laugh.

"I want you to think, question this, Hermione." His hand curled around hers as she shook her head. "For your sake. And...for mine."

Her belly swooped. Was that an admission? Merlin's great and shaggy beard…

"Ask me your questions." She lifted her chin, well, pushed her head back over the pillow, and set her mouth in a serious line. "I'm ready."

"Ridiculous witch."

But there was a low thrum of affection on his voice and her heart squeezed.

"Is this a rebound? The idea —as you had on the very first night— of rubbing Weasley's nose in a scandalous relationship."

"Bloody legilimens."

"Without that gift, I would not have known you were in the library in need of help. My room was above it. Your brain leaked through the floorboards."

Her nose wrinkled. "Lovely. And no. Never that."

"Then why now? After proof either that Weasley has matured, which I doubt, or that…" He winced.

He didn't want to tell her a harsh truth...and that was the change in Severus Snape. The one brought with friendship, with standing over boiling cauldrons together, or arguing over mouldy scrolls, with nights of perfect sleep wrapped around each other like Devil's Snare.

"That, in the end, it was me, he didn't want. Not my scars. They were...convenient." Her mouth twitched, and the pain of that admission —one that would have scorched her only months before— was slight. "Because that only hurt a little in saying it. Whereas if you said, 'I've had enough of you, you mad clingy witch' or, or 'Stay in your room tonight, someone, someone else is sharing my bed'—"

She bit her lip at the sudden pain that suffused her. Severus with another witch. No, no, he _couldn't_—

Hermione was swamped by him, his long arms, firm chest, his nose buried in her hair, the tangle of them together...and the mortification of one last thing. He never… There was never any _sign_ that he wanted more than her...her _hugs_. She wore only knickers to his bed. And not once had she ever felt—

"Charmed. My underwear. They are charmed. Firstly, so that you would feel safe with me...and later, gods, witch because the lush perfection of you tormented me."

Hermione worked her chin up and pushed back the wild bush of her hair to stare at him in wonder. "Truly?"

"You're happy about my pain?"

But in the grey light, the gleam of humour in his dark eyes was obvious. "Yes, yes I am, Severus. Delighted."

"Wicked witch."

Hermione drew a line along his jaw, the roughness of bristles there just under the skin. Her hand trembled. Yes, she'd been sleeping with him practically naked for months, but this, this closeness strained and stretched her nerves. She wanted him. She loved him. And she did not want to fuck it up. Not...not _again_.

"I am a sure thing, Hermione Granger." His voice was low and smooth, and the affection in his gaze squeezed her heart. "If you will have me, I am yours."

"Oh, oh there will be _lots_ of having."

Severus laughed and then, his head dipped and his lips brushed hers, sure and sweet, in the first of _many_ kisses.


End file.
